


Of crime and roses

by MasterOfTheAUs



Series: The Yellow Rose [2]
Category: Evillious Chronicles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Backstory, Bittersweet, Companion Piece, Gen, Mafia Riliane, Male-Female Friendship, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Street Rats, Street boy Allen, Yellow Rose universe, odd friendship, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-07-06 18:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterOfTheAUs/pseuds/MasterOfTheAUs
Summary: Yellow Rose universe.A collection of events that happened in the daily lives of the people in said world.May or may not contain spoilers, backstory, foreshadowing or scrapped plot points.





	1. Germination

**ger·mi·na·tion**

ˌjərməˈnāSH(ə)n/

_noun_

  * the development of a plant from a seed or spore after a period of dormancy.
  * the process of something coming into existence and developing.



* * *

The icy black sky restlessly grumbled. The thick blackened clouds were dragged down by the heavy rain. The rain came down at the world with a roar and the cracking of thunder.

He was running.

The seven-year-old boy rushed across the slippery sidewalk, the streetlights only helping just so to see where he was going. His posture weakened by the onslaught of the elements. His arm stung where a thorn had dug into him, his sleeve ruined. His hand closed around empty air, already missing the absence of another, very similar hand in his.

The rain made his surroundings become blurry and hazy. Surreal. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend nothing had happened.

Shivers wracked his frame as he forced himself to stop, his shoes completely soaked. The houses had long ago become unfamiliar when he realized what he had done and what had happened.

He realized, but couldn't process it. They had been fine, they had been talking and laughing and looking at him with calculating eyes. They had been fine, until-

Gulp, gulp.

Red.

Thud.

The room had held nothing but ghosts and himself, dizzy with horror amongst the dead bodies and splatters of wine. Without knowing what to do, he had run.

He could go back, tell his mother what happened, hug his sister and never let her go. Just a small change in the great picture. Life would go on.

He could go forward, towards the unknown, alone for the first time in his life. Whoever had planned the attack could still be around, could have seen him escape. No witnesses. He hadn't touched his glass the entire time he had been in the room. He couldn't put his family in danger by returning.

No, it would be best if he didn't return for a while. Anonymity was a shield, for them especially. Besides, his mother would look for him soon, however enticing the idea of disappearing was.

He knew what would await them if he returned. A succession conflict, even though his sister was the elder. She deserved to be the successor more than he did, so why go through all that trouble? It would save his family much grief, too. Those were good enough reasons. Those were his only reasons.

That was a lie. He was selfish.

Being in their family, they had to play by the rules, however much he despised them. He was sick of being compared to his sister. He was sick of having to repress his emotions forever.

He was sick of being scared of not being good enough. He wanted to go back and take his sister with him and then it would just be the two of them against the world. He couldn't risk it, she would be safe where she was. Besides, it would only be for a couple of days, then his mother would retrieve him and things would go back to normal, even with the knowledge he had seen his father-

_No!_

That- that hadn't been him! He hadn't seen- that had happened to someone else, and he just happened to be watching. Yes, that was it.

He couldn't afford to lose himself in the recent memory, or he would spend an eternity rooted to the spot.

The boy closed his eyes and slowly turned to the darkened street.

Being the best, always, always, a shadow of his perfect sister, cold eyes and unkind whispers and never showing how he felt. Living with the knowledge that no one could be trusted, everyone could stab you in the back at any given moment. If that was the case, then he was better off alone. He wouldn't miss any of that. He wouldn't be missed either. Would he?

Wherever he ended up, it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.

Without looking back, he opened his eyes and walked quickly down the street, picking up the pace gradually until his body was flying through the darkness as fast as his legs would take him. And with the running, he forged his identity.

"My name is Allen," the boy whispered to himself. The name felt right in his tongue. "My name is Allen, and I am a street kid of seven, and I have never heard of the Lucifen family name."

In the silence came a low crackle of thunder, rolling through the city. For a moment, everything stopped. A streak of hot silver split the sky. The wind picked up force, newspapers blew along the street and umbrellas turned inside out and the wind was almost carrying him.

He was running.

This time, he wouldn't stop.


	2. ebony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The friendships of today are the allies of tomorrow

**e-bo-ny**

ˈɛb.ən.i

_noun_

\- a tree in south Asia with hard dark-colored heartwood

\- a very dark black

* * *

Something he had noticed a few months in, after a few days, the hunger went away. He felt weak, he still wanted food, but the hunger pangs weren't there and that wasn't good, he knew. Then it returned with a vengeance, which made people stupid, apparently.

Hunger made people make dumb choices. Hunger had made him get into a fight for some bread. He was supposed to be better than this.

Risking being chased by some street kids over bread was stupid. Climbing up an ebony tree to avoid them was even more stupid. The stupidest thing was, he had continued climbing up when it had started raining. And now, with his pursuers gone, he found himself wondering how to climb down, hopefully without crashing to the ground.

He started his descent, his fingertips gripping into the crevices that ran through the bark. Allen ran his hand over the silvery bark, feeling the blisters, the curling. It was like the paint in some of the houses he had found shelter in, coming loose under the skin of his hands. He gripped harder, the bark cracked and fell confetti-like.

His foot slipped, hands trying to grab the branch for support but failing. The water made it slippery. The ground came to meet him in a fraction of a second.

He got the air knocked out of him, his other hand still clutching the bread.

"I knew you were gonna fall," he heard from somewhere above, "'Should I tell him, should I not?' And then whose fault would it be?"

Allen looked up, seeing a pair of feet covered in rain boots, decent clothing, then a black-haired boy with the most colorful umbrella he had ever seen, not quite as bright as the smile adorning his face. It was almost an insult to the eyes.

The boy was holding out a hand. It was perfect, baby soft and smooth, like an infant. Of the people he had seen, nobody hands like that anymore, people had calluses and scars, red welts from work and behind their nails was grime that no amount of washing would shift. That boy had never done a day's true work in his life. "Can you stand? I'm Inukichi."

He wondered why. Most people wouldn't give him the time of the day, let alone help him. In fact, begging was subpar as a source of income, and he'd learned after running after women, pleading for just a few cents, it scared them when he looked them in the eye. They had seen too many street kids strung out on drugs, too many crazy homeless men to trust anyone who looked and smelled like Allen did.

So why was this boy offering his hand? Didn't he know? His eyes were trusting and his hand smooth. Probably not.

He doubted the boy had something of value in his person. He had made a rule: Only steal when it's necessary. He'd seen countless kids, shoplifters, pickpockets, purse-snatchers, all picked up by the police, caught in the attempt to score some money for food or drugs or sex, and he never wanted to be dragged away like that, because the police might take him back, and then what would he do?

Names knotted and mixed in his brain, twisting his tongue as he thought was to tell this boy. If he said Allen, things would continue as they were, and if he said Alexiel, then... then what?

He hadn't seen any search parties, not even 'missing' posters. Life went on as he worked out the rules of the game. And as he stared at the boy for what felt like five hundred years, he had a realization.

_Nobody's looking for me at all._

He shoved the ugly mix of emotions deep inside, to be reflected on later. He was overreacting at the name issue, he was too good at escaping notice, no matter if he was Orthodox Lucifenian. His hair was dirty enough and longer than it ever had been. He could easily pass off as a generic Lucifenian street kid, and honestly? As far as he was concerned, he was.

Something inside him unknotted as he stood on his own. Inukichi. Lucky dog. Oh, the poor kid. His lips were pulling, morphing his mouth into a grin without his permission. "Are we usin' codenames? Then I'm Kokutan-douji."


	3. Kadota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (dead boys couldn't kill, dead boys couldn't fail, dead boys couldn't harm, dead boys couldn't feel pain...)  
> or  
> Burning bridges and roses, a last goodbye to who he ceased to be.

**ka - do - ta**  

 

kɑdo̞t̪ɑ

 

_verb_  

 

  * To disappear, vanish, fade.
  * To get lost, go missing.



* * *

The thing was-

He had a rose and a moon, and one of them he could live without.

There was a moon over his heart, held there by a string around his neck. He had a moon and she had a sun, _i'mneveralone_ and _youwillfindme_ and he would end whoever tried to take it away. There was a rose on the back of his hand, a birthmark, a burden. It was a lucky coincidence, a shared trait. It was a sign pointing to his identity. It was _whoiwas_ and _myrolemyduties_ and

The thing was-

He couldn't risk it. **He wasn't going back** and **it was too much of an obvious mark** and **it was better that way** and excuses upon excuses piled up in his head. All it would take:

one lapse in judgment, one overbearing moment of chaos.

And down goes the Prince.

_But I've not fallen yet._

_(are you sure?)_

_Never will I, either._

_(you don't believe that)_

And sometimes he thought, somewhere, there, was a sunshine-sunset-moon.

But he was wrong, for the pain of guilt was a shadow looming in the horizon. It was better this way. A preventive measure. If nobody was looking for Alexiel Lucifen, then it stood to reason that the only thing Alexiel Lucifen could do was die.

Well, they couldn't be angry at a dead boy.

_(dead boys couldn't kill, dead boys couldn't fail, dead boys couldn't harm, dead boys couldn't feel pain...)_

He lit the fire.

* * *

Heat. Burning. Fire licked upon the back of his hand.

**_(agony-screams-orangeredblueyellowpurplewhitegreen-_ ** _please)_

The rose wiltedburnedwentaway and so the boy named Alexiel ceased to be.

* * *

His hand was black like charred cookies and the inky depths of the closet he used to be loc- _what was he doing no breaking his one rule no thinking no thinking no thinking no remembering no remembering-_

It was flaked with dark brown blisters and burnt skin like he had never seen before. He wondered, faintly, if the scabs and charcoal would stay once it healed. It was curiously dark, he noted – the way the blood was clumped. He could even make out some faint blues beside the black and brown.

His blood was paint and it bruised and bloomed like wildflowers marking meadows on the back of his hand. He thought of the pictures he had made in his life, looked at the not-rose on the back of his hand, and deliriously thought, _‘this one’s my favorite’_.

* * *

His hand was red. He had rubbed the scab to clean it and it had come again. There was blood oozing out. He thought, fleetingly, that it looked like watercolors and he wished he could paint with it.

The back of his hand was tingling and there was yellow mixed in with the viscous liquid of his veins, but he focused on the red and its brilliance and not that it really didn’t look good. He thought of vampires and roses and felt a numb kind of fascination with the blood that dripped steadily into the sink.

And maybe burning off his birthmark hadn’t been a good idea, but the boy named Allen couldn’t bring himself to regret.


End file.
